


All This Rotting Fruit

by OverMyFreckledBody



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Break Up, Double Agents, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Missing Scene, Post-Break Up, Rescue, Unhappy Ending, Untold Motives, War, attempted redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 08:03:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12677766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverMyFreckledBody/pseuds/OverMyFreckledBody
Summary: Everything between them feels perfect, especially compared to the fighting they go through outside of just the two of them. He hopes it will last forever.She knows better than that. (In fact, she might as well as been the one to put an expiration on what they have.)





	All This Rotting Fruit

**Author's Note:**

> Music that the title is from.
> 
> Been thinking about these guys too. I find writing about imperfect relationships interesting.

                “You can tell me about anything.” She reaches forward to cup his cheek in her palm, tilting his head just perfectly for him to catch the look in her eyes. Her gaze is warm and soft, very unlike her cold, callused hands, worn from war, cold from the biting weather outside. He can’t break the eye contact, but she doesn’t even try to either, when she adds on, “Tell me about things that bother you. I want to know what hurts you and I never want to make you face it. I want to know what makes you happy and give you that every day.”

 

                He closes his eyes then, the moment too intense to hold onto that look of pure love, adoration, protectiveness. His smile pulls itself up as well, much less embarrassment than he’d expect at hearing such words, and much more pleasure and safety. “I will,” he promises, and her thumb swipes over his cheekbone at his words. He opens his eyes then, and he can see her begin to smile back at him. “But you have to, too.”

 

                Her smile opens at that, showing a hint of teeth at one corner and her eyes glow with affection. “Anything for you, my love,” she whispers, before taking his hand in her free one and lifting it to her mouth to press a chaste kiss to the backs of his fingers. “Anything for us.”

 

                Inside their tent isn’t all that much warmer than the world outside, but it’s a little more secluded. It’s a place for them, just the two, and that’s enough to keep the chill at bay.

 

* * *

 

 

                Riko once said, _one person’s life is never more than the war_.

 

                And she had corrected them with, _once someone has made enough of a mark on their side, then they can die as a pawn with nothing lost_.

 

                It wasn’t clear then, and it’s not like suddenly now it’s an obvious hint, either, but in hindsight, it feels important.

 

* * *

 

 

                She loves him. She loves him so much.

 

                He takes a deeper breath in, but when she gently brushes the loose hairs from his forehead, he settles back to sleep. She keeps her hand there, fingers tracing patterns in his skin, and presses a fist to her chest with her other hand.

 

                It _hurts_.

 

* * *

 

 

                He wakes to an empty bed, not uncommon, but with a cold and stillness to it that’s never been there before. It wakes him more to realize she’s been out long enough for this to happen, without even waking him to say goodbye, or coming back briefly to keep her side a touch warmer. He slides out and stands, looking around for any change in scenery, any clue at all to her disappearance. Atop their neat pile of stuff (half gone, all that’s left is his) is a folded piece of paper. He moves to it, without bothering to dress, ignoring the goosebumps that erupt over his skin, and spreads out the untidy folding.

 

                In her small, neater than usual writing, the letter reads:

 

                _My love,_

_You, even in your sleep, are the sunlight to my life, the heat in these cold months, and you glow in ways I cannot even begin to describe. All I can put to words is how much I love you, how you are my most loved, my dearest friend. Since we’ve found each other, even before we fell into one another’s arms, you have been someone I knew I would keep in my head, close to my heart, forever. I am always thinking of you, and I know that nothing plausible in this world can change that, and you should know just as well. I wish that physically we could be similar in our inability to be separated like this, but it does not appear to be the case._

_I’m sorry._

_I have to go, and I cannot tell you of where. I am, bodily wise, in perfect condition, as you left me, save for the mark on my collarbone, the one I know you remember pressing into my skin with your teeth. I’m sure you’ll be just as fond to hear of that, at least as much as I am. I wish I had asked for more when I knew that I was to leave, but more than that I wish I didn’t have to leave you. I wish I had more time with you, to hold and touch, to listen and talk with, to simply be with. I know I will carry you in my heart and mind, in thought and feeling, but I already know that many times it will not feel enough. It will be, because I know you are safe, especially where I left you, curled under the covers. I like knowing that that is the last image I will have of you before I leave._

_You are just steps from me and already I miss you. I mourn for myself and you in the future, separated like this, for the pain I know we will both suffer so much. I will miss the easy conversation, both of nothing and everything, of importance and not. I will miss the way you look in the sunshine, the way it glosses your hair, makes your eyes glow, the way your laugh is always a touch happier when you’re outside and under the light. I will miss the way you grab me close when words aren’t doing the job, the way you will pay my moods and desires the most attention. I will miss the way you look at me and grin, the way you seek out my thoughts, the way you obviously love me just as I do you. I will miss you more than anything in this world and Gods above, do I hate them for making me do this to you. To us._

_I wish I had your strength. I wish I had your stubborn secureness of mind, that I could say no to what is taking me from you, us, this. I wish I could make a decision, to be selfishly against what I have to do, to be kind to you and me. I suppose I’ve already made a decision, but everything tells me that it isn’t the right one. Anything that hurts you is wrong, and I wish to challenge it. However, even I know that there’s not a lot I can do about it now._

_I resent that._

_I resent not always having you._

Underneath that is a shorter paragraph that doesn’t connect with the rest, or make much sense. He can tell that it’s still her own words, still her own writing, not with even a touch of hesitation and without significantly more blotting in the ink than the rest.

 

                _Remember. You do not exist. No one knows of you. Keep this in mind always. You are but no one, and use it to your advantage._

 

                Beneath that is two images, both in dark red, a stark contrast both to the whiteness of the paper and the blackness of the ink. The first is a heart, made of two thumbprints conjoined on the bottom, one side fainter than the other. The second is a lip print of the same liquid, the paper creasing in the middle where she had obviously had to bend it to press her lips there and get the print she wanted.

 

                He furrows his eyebrows, thinking over where she would go, where she would _need_ to go, and why she couldn’t tell him. His thumb traces over the red of her lips, and when he lifts it away, it retains bare specks of what she used, but it doesn’t smear. He rubs away the particles on his thumb and begins the letter again, hoping to gain something different with this read.

 

                He doesn’t have much hope.

 

* * *

 

 

                They have their boundaries, ones that they both keep up with quite well. Hers is family, her old one, and neither of them have the luxury of imagining what they could make up in the future. Maybe it’s fun to dream about, but the haunted looks they share usually do too much to kill that topic than encourage it. One day, that could be different, but nobody – not them, not the others, nobody – really expects as much.

 

                She’s told him specifically that she doesn’t want to talk about her family. He understands as much, knows that it isn’t as if she doesn’t trust him, or doesn’t want to share with him. He knows that it hurts and that she’s not at the point of wanting to talk about it with someone who doesn’t know them, will probably never know them. Whether they’re dead or not doesn’t matter, and he knows this. She might never feel up to talking about them, and that is fine. He will never push her about that.

 

                All he’s ever noticed is that when they happen upon young children, especially girls, she’s suddenly tense and clenching her jaw. She doesn’t speak to them, like the others, and she keeps her eyes on anything but them. When they go to bed on nights like that, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer anything, lost in her thoughts. She doesn’t lash out, but instead reaches for him, and finds comfort in his hold.

 

                It’s enough, knowing that she knows just what she needs on days like that, and it’s more, knowing that he can help.

 

* * *

 

 

                She’s right, in the end. No one knows of him. They know of the rest of the group, of their weaknesses to exploit, of their strengths to avoid. With the information they have (so clearly tipped off about it all), it’s not long before everyone but him is stuck, in danger, in need of him.

 

                His _nobody_ status is what saves them all, in the end. The shock in the eyes behind those red masks when he barged in is still so absurd to think about, even after. It’s a good thing he can compartmentalize during the action, well enough that he could use that surprise to his advantage. When he’s freed everyone and they’ve all made sure that they’re not too hurt or drained to fight their way out, he’s asked how he got the opportunity at all. They had all been ambushed, after all, and there he was, standing tall and fine after sneaking his way in.

 

                _Remember. You do not exist_.

 

                “Skill and good evasion tactics,” he had said with a tired grin, one he hoped he could pass off as because of the environment rather than anything else. No one looked like they believed him, but then wasn’t the time to bring it up. There could be time for squabbles later, when they’re out, safe, and everything is over.

 

                It wasn’t something he was looking forward to. Still, he knew there was nothing he could do about it, so he took a deep breath in, and readied himself for what was lying between them and that future.

 

* * *

 

 

                “Here’s the information you wanted.” She hands Riko the papers, all written neat and nicely. She probably doesn’t need to keep with writing so cleanly and could slack a little by this point, but she continues to try her best, anyway. Sure, she has their trust again – though, only when it comes to collecting intelligence and nothing personal with them and who they fight with, but that’s to be expected – but she doesn’t want to lose it.

 

                Neither of them take their eyes off of her to glance through the papers, but she’s used to it. Riko is outright glaring at her, but they keep their hatred to their eyes only. Their expression is cold, but otherwise empty, what they wear when meeting with people outside of camp. It’s far from when she remembered seeing when they were around those they trusted, but by now, she is used to that as well. The papers don’t even bend or shake in their grasp, and if one was only looking at their hands, it would appear as if Riko was relaxed completely.

 

                Josephine is the true blank slate here, as she usually is. Even in the past, at camp, she would watch over everyone with little input unless something had turned rough. Josephine tended to remind her of a mother wolf, careful eyes tracking every movement of her pups as they rolled around in the grass, small and excitable little things before they grew to be strong, wild warriors.

 

                She can count the number of times she’s seen Josephine smile more than a twitch of lips, all on one hand. Of those few, only one of those times was caused by someone who _wasn’t_ Riko.  

 

                “You never ask about him,” Josephine mentions, instead of a dismissal or another mission. It’s a shocking turn, but it’s also a truthful observation. She doesn’t ask about him, she never does.

 

                She doesn’t clear her throat, or shift on her feet. She doesn’t show that she isn’t taking this turn of conversation very well. She knows better than to show weakness and these people are not the kind to be weak around anymore. “No,” she says, without a bob of her throat, without a hitch in her breath. “I don’t deserve that.”

 

                She knows this too.  It’s why she never sees him, either. She knows he’s kept away from her visits, but she knows better than to even ask – about _anything_ having to do with him.

 

                Riko doesn’t even waver when they agree, “You don’t.”

 

                Even if it is true, she doesn’t like the way they say it, with coldness that is both impersonal and malicious. Josephine doesn’t even raise a hand to their shoulder to chide them for his response, and that’s when she knows that despite Josephine keeping an impenetrable wall around her emotions, it’s easy to see that she still aches with him for the sting of her betrayal. She always knew that Riko was a window to everything she couldn’t see about Josephine, but sometimes she forgets just how telling the actions they share with each other can be.

 

                She continues to keep eye contact with Josephine, but breaks it briefly to glance at Riko before she adds, “Besides, I don’t know what good it would do for him to hear about me asking questions about him in his absence.”

 

                It’s easier for everyone if she just keeps those thoughts about him to herself.

 

                “And if I tell him about you saying as much?” Josephine asks with a raise of a single brow. It’s a good bluff, because she _can_ and nobody would really be able to stop her, unless Riko felt the need to talk her out of it. It’s also a question of her phrasing, on whether or not she follows Josephine’s authority to the exact t. Undermining someone by suggesting they would or wouldn’t do something based on how it would emotionally affect one of their men isn’t the best way to inspire confidence in that trust.

 

                After a moment’s pause, not to think out how she wants to say it, but to hold the tension tight, she finally conceded. “You’ll do what’s best for your people.” That much is clear. No matter the cost, if the end is best for her people as a whole, Josephine will do it.

 

                Josephine acknowledges this with a subtle dip of her head, but she has a feeling that her words were taken just the way she meant them – and that way doesn’t warrant a pleased reply. She knows, later, probably only minutes from now, she’s going to regret acting out like this, but for now she relishes in knowing that he won’t be told of anything past the information she dropped off.

 

                It’s likely obvious, her relief and why, but she still turns away, knowing that that nod of Josephine’s was a cue to leave, as well. It’s best not to stay here, when something itchy simmers under her skin and makes her lips a little too loose.

 

* * *

 

 

                “I don’t want to trust her,” he hears Riko grumble as they and Josephine make their way back into camp. He keeps his head down, focusing on sorting out the newest load of rations they got. Against his will, it seems his ears tune in anyway, prickling to catch the sound no matter how hard to tries to ignore them.

 

                Riko is already starting to pull off some of their extra layers, but as always, Josephine doesn’t add or remove anything. She keeps her hair in its style, keeps on her tight necklace, and doesn’t loosen her clothes, material that is a deep purple that suits her dark complexion well, and bunchy, surely hot in the warming Spring weather. Instead, she stops when Riko bends down to undo a boot buckle, and pushes a hand into their short hair, combing through it even when they stand back up. “All we have to trust is her ability to give us accurate intelligence, not whether or not she’ll sell us out again. She already knows enough to do it if she felt the desire, but we will not be giving her any new information.”

 

                They stop, as if thinking it over, but while it’s clear that Riko’s unhappy, they don’t disagree. They hold Josephine’s gaze for a short second before turning back to move to the tent the both of them share. “I still don’t want to.”

 

                “Riko.” There’s silence after Josephine’s call and when he looks up, he sees her, arm outstretched and pressing her hand against Riko’s throat. Her thumb shifts up to the underside of their jaw and presses, tilting their head to the right. Riko says nothing, moving as she wishes, and their shoulders droop, releasing earlier tension when she gets them where she wants them. Her free hand comes up to sweep over the apples of their cheeks.

 

                “You’re reddening,” she points out, her voice a gentler hush compared to before. He jerks from watching, feeling caught in overhearing a suddenly intimate moment. “Do not let her get to you.”

 

                “I won’t,” Riko says, voice even softer.

 

                He wishes he could say the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Riko and Josephine were actually unplanned.


End file.
